


Under The Argan Tree

by Lipush



Category: Vis a Vis | Locked In (Spain TV)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Gen, Multi, Mystery, Parent-Child Relationship, Post Season 1, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-09
Updated: 2020-06-13
Packaged: 2021-03-03 18:55:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24630403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lipush/pseuds/Lipush
Summary: In the wake of the fugitives' arrest in Morocco, 6 years later than expected, Inspector Castillo struggles to find the answers he so desperately needs: Where are the stolen millions? what happened to Macarena Ferreiro and who's the individual threatening his entire case? The key to all these questions lies within one little boy they all must protect. But at what cost? Post S01e11.
Comments: 14
Kudos: 14





	1. The Son

**Author's Note:**

> So, call this story my therapy. El Oasis left us all TRAUMATIZED, so I simply pretend none of this happened post episode 7, and choose to take a trip down memory lane. I hope you all like it. English is not my native language, so casual errors are to be expected. Comments are love!

* * *

Inspector Castillo limps toward the office at the end of the hall as quickly as possible, something which proves itself challenging, thanks to his age and walking cane.

After knocking on the door and hearing the usual, “Enter,” he steps into the office and closes the door behind him.

“Chief,” he growls in greeting, and the woman behind the desk nods and signals him to sit down. He does.

“I heard you made an interesting arrest yesterday,” she goes straight to the point.

“Yes, madam,” the inspector responds with an indifferent voice.

“I take it that they're being interrogated as we speak?”

"Of course," he bounces the walking stick from one hand to the other. “These two bitches will not get away with it this time. It will take them a little while to realize that coming clean is their best option.”

The police inspector is sceptical but prefers to avoid arguments as for now. “And our guest?” she asks instead. "I hope your boys treat him properly.”

Castillo exhales irritably. “We are treading on thin ice with him. Torres is as patient and gentle as possible, but we're sure he knows more than he lets on. So forgive me if I have to bend the rules a bit to make sure we indeed get the necessary information out of him.”

“And you can count on me being here to prevent it,” a female voice behind him was heard from across the room.

Castillo closes his eyes tightly. _Vaya mierda_. He should have known that she'd already be in the office, hidden in the shadows. Are his instincts are so distorted?

Lorena Villalba approaches the table slowly, leaning against it like a cat about to pounce.

“Always fun having you around, Villalba,” Castillo huffs. Talk about slaughtering his case.

She smiles humorlessly. "You will not ask him anything without my knowledge and approval, Castillo," she warns. He mutters a curse under his breath, and in response, she straightens up and begins to walk around the room dramatically.

“Come on! You're acting like a rookie! You know as well as I do that once you apply even a little violence on him, your whole worldwide operation will be rolling down the mountain,” she straightens her eyes to the captain, who leans back in her seat but remains silent. “I want to be updated about the questions you'll be asking and be in the room with him at all times. We can't afford to cross the line with this interrogation.”

Captain Mariana Fraga nods slowly, in agreement. “There is no need to discuss it any further,” she concludes, “We know you're just doing your job.”

Villalba sighs in relief, adding, “We'll still need a psychologist and an interpreter for him. As soon as possible.”

“We will send one right away," replies Fraga, before turning to Castillo again; "Did you want to update me on something?”

She didn't even ask him what the hell he was doing in her office, but suddenly it seems irrelevant.

“Not something that can't wait a few hours,” he replies, getting up from his seat, turning to leave. “Lorena? A word outside, please?”

The young woman salutes the captain in jest, before leaving.

He corners her before whispering in anger, “I would very much appreciate it if you let me do my job too, _chavala_. It took me almost six years to catch these bitches, and I won't let them slip between my fingers again. Not after all the risks I took. You know what's at stake here.”

Villalba is not very impressed. “Of course I know,” she shakes her head in mockery, “three and a half million euros, that's what's at stake here.” Castillo nods, and it is Villalba's turn to get upset- “And how much is _his_ life worth, huh?”

After a deafening silence, Castillo takes a step back and Villalba throws a towel. “Look, I get you, okay? I'm not stupid. But we're already here, so at least we'll make sure to finish this investigation properly, okay?”

Castillo sighs and looks up as if seeking an answer from the forces of the universe or God. He then looks back at her deeply before making his way to the other side of the hall. “Oh well,” he says, “let's get this over with.”

* * *

Interrogation room number 5 at the central police headquarters is quite different from the other four. Instead of gray wallpapers, cameras at every possible angle and the smell of suffocating dust, the current room is much more inviting. The walls are brightly colored, and adorned with pictures of rabbits and cartoon characters. Children's books are placed on the shelves, and toys suitable for any age are scattered throughout the room. In the center of the room, there is a small, round, lonely table with blank pages and crayon colors. Around the table are a few small chairs.

He sits there, aimlessly painting on a blank A4 page, mumbling to himself. He does not pay attention to the uniformed policeman standing at the room's entrance, watching him. He is completely concentrated on his artwork, the multiple details opposing the idea of the artist's young age.

A few seconds later, the door is opened, and a man and woman enter. The woman signs a non-binding gesture to a uniformed policeman, who greets the two and leaves the room. Their young guest is left with Villalba and Castillo.

The officer then takes the time to examine him properly. He is very small, his skin tanned, and his black, scattered hair falling into thick curls which almost hide his eyes.

He seems like he has already got used to the environment, which doesn't happen much for children in his condition, and certainly not at such a young age. His head is bent, and he hums to himself as he paints, seemingly trapped in his own private world.

Villalba approaches the table slowly, then calls his name.

“Murad.”

The little boy doesn't seem to notice or chooses to ignore her because he doesn't respond to her at all.

Villalba chirps her tongue before leaning on the table. Behind her, Castillo seems impatient. “Rude little urchin,” he mumbles to himself.

Lorena turns to glare at him and shakes her head. “No,” she says quietly, “not rude.”

She then taps her finger on her right ear twice, her eyes gesturing towards the guest, trying to imply something.

And suddenly he realizes when he instantly sees the small, semi-transparent object that is adjacent to the child's left ear and the sides of his head.

 _A Hearing Aid_.

“Well, shit,” the policeman mumbles a curse weakly. This kid has been here for 12 hours, and so far they haven't bothered to let him know he's deaf?!

Villalba seems to be reading his mind and sees the need to clarify. “He is not completely deaf,” she emphasizes. “He has a serious hearing impairment, but he can hear sounds if they are projected directly to his ears.”

The policewoman then leans her palms on the table, making sure she's within his line of sight and, as expected, he notices her and raises his head to look at her curiously.

“Hello, my dear,” she says quietly, her tone soothing and face soft. “How are you?”

The young guest gives her a long look before his eyes return to painting. He then pushes it forward intentionally, pointing at it with a tiny finger.

Lorena takes the painting and turns to appreciate the investment in his simple handwork. The page shows an open field and sun observing everything from above, with triangular rays that are typical to a young child's painting.

“For me?” the young woman asks with a smile. She then runs the inside of her palm over her chin before fisting it and turning it in front of her face.

<This is beautiful,> she signs, <Thank you.>

The boy seems pleased, smiling weakly; before his eyes shift to Castillo and his smile is wiped almost immediately.

The policeman steps forward heavily, grabs the back of a chair from across the table and drops into it, causing the child to wrinkle up his nose.

“That's why you insisted on an interpreter,” he says to Villalba. “Can he even understand us?”

Villalba turns to smile at the boy. “Oh, yeah, he can read lips very well, right?” she puts her first and middle finger together, rotating them in a circular motion around her mouth. The boy nods in response, his eyes switching between the two. “He just prefers sign language. Words lie. Signs, not so much.”

“Hmm,” the policeman replies, not sure how to respond.

“And Murad doesn't like the Spanish language in general,” Villalba mentions with amusement. “Moroccan and French are his languages of choice, since they were the ones he grew up to.”

 _Oh, wonderful_. This case just keeps getting complicated.

“But none of that matters, really,” Villalba is careful enough to look at the child as she speaks, very slowly. “As I told him in the last hour, Murad is going to live with a Spanish family from now on, with Spanish parents and proud Andalusian culture. If he wants to play with his mommy and his new siblings, he will have to talk to them, with the beautiful voice I know he has. You understand what I'm saying, don't you?”

Murad suddenly seems irritated, his eyebrows are shrinking and his nostrils flaring. He swings back in the chair and starts kicking the desk in anger.

“Home,” he blurts out, and the simple word emitted from his mouth is filled with inarticulacy typical to those who have trouble hearing their own voice. Castillo is surprised but relieved when he realizes that the boy is capable of uttering words.

“I'm sorry, sweetie, but you can't go home yet,” Villalba replies.

Murad doesn't like to hear that. Not at all.

“Home!” he cries out, darts out of the chair and turns to the corner of the room with his back to them. “Go... to the sea! Go to the sea!”

 _‘Huh?’_ Castillo wonders, ‘ _What the hell? Where did this come from?’_

Villalba lets out a weak sigh and stands up to approach him. He completely ignores her, throwing small punches at the wall over and over, while insisting- “Sea! Home! Sea! Sea!”

“No, no,” the policewoman tries to calm him down by putting a hand on his shoulder, but he shakes it off and starts punching her instead of the wall.

“Ahhhh!” He consumes his rage on her. “Not here! Home! Home!” he screams and his face turns red with anger.

“Murad, no!” She grabs his clenched palms in her hands, but he starts to kick and rave. “Calm down!” She turns the child so that his back is facing her, lifting and pressing him into her lap in kind of a fetal position. All the while, Castillo looks at the two in confusion.

When the boy realizes that he's trapped in this position, he kicks his feet in the air and his shouts grow louder. Castillo appears to snap out of the trance and takes a step forward to help, but one look from Villalba causes him to halt. It seems that she wants to deal with this herself.

“Home! Home!” Murad insists loudly, but Villalba is just as stubborn.

“I know it seems so hard now, but we're here to protect you and talk to you,” she tries to reach him. “We love you and want you to stay with us for a little while.” She pats his hair, and he throws his head to the other side, away from her.

“Don't want! Home! To the sea! Mommy!” His voice is full of despair.

Villalba’s heart aches with sympathy, and Castillo tenses. This is not the first time Murad has called for his mother, nor is it the first time he has been forced to hear that he can’t see her.

“Mommy can't be with you right now,” the policewoman tries to explain, “but you shouldn't be afraid. We're here and we'll protect you until she returns.”

“Noooo!” Murad shouts from the top of his lungs and tears run down his flushed face, “Mommy here! Mommy now!”

This is one of the situations that the academy doesn't prepare you for, and it's not always easy to deal with. Villalba stands, leaning forward with a hysteric child in her arms, and facing a police officer before retiring who is not sure what to do.

Murad keeps screaming, kicking and trying to fight back with all his little might, and a few seconds later, Villalba tries a slightly different tactic. She grabs the right side of his torso, turns his head back, puts her lips close to his ears and begins to sing, despite his convulsions-

“ _Yalla tinam…”_ her voice is gentle, soothing, _“Ikfil el’baka…”_

It works like magic. Within a few seconds, his cries subside to a small whimper, and he slackens in her arms, pulling on his nose, and with trembling lips.

_“Yalla yalla, habibi… Yalla yalla, tinam…”_

“Mommy...” Although his voice is miserable and crying, he no longer fusses.

_"Ikfil el’baka, ya tafli habibi… yalla yalla, tinam…”_

* * *

The folder is thrown onto Villalba's office desk a few minutes later, and Castillo starts walking around the room like a caged beast.

"Is there any need to discuss this further?" The policeman stops and turns to face Villalba, "I understand that what we saw is just a nutshell?"

Villalba tightens her lips before sitting down. "What you saw, Cariño", she leans back in her chair, "is a classic distress response of a child under six years of age who is on the autistic spectrum."

Castillo covers his face with his hand. Oh dear, what did he get himself into?

"It's very difficult to reach him. The method we use with any other child’s investigations simply doesn’t work with him. He is very young, and due to his limitations he has no grasp of social situations, so sometimes you have to be direct in a way that you wouldn’t dream of if it were any other child. Altogether, there were conversations that started with him at the verbal level of a 3-year-old child. With Murad, it's a matter of trial and error, and just going with what we have."

"So what do we do now?" Castillo sits down as well. The senior policeman really doesn't know what to do. On one hand, he has to finish this case quickly, the entire force breathing down the back of his neck and the hatred towards those responsible for the situation only increasing over time. On the other hand, poor child. Deaf, autistic, with terrible verbal ability. Really, what can they do?

"Belén Rodríguez, from the support center, ever heard of her?" Castillo has, in fact. "She should be here in about half an hour and she will run Murad's situation with us. Meanwhile? He just seems to want his mother."

Castillo feels his anger rising again, and he leans forward. "Oh, yes?!" he thunders, "Do you want to start by explaining to him in a language that he understands that his dear mommy is a thief, a kidnapper, a child-murderer and a terrorist? I don’t give a shit about what he wants right now. With all my empathy for his situation, this woman should be as far away from him as possible. She has no right to be a mother at all!"

Villalba can't really argue with him on that, given that she feels the same way. “That being said... You have to remember that she knows how to reach him in a way that we don't, and we should derive the right tactics from her so that he'll start collaborating with us. In the meantime, we're stuck. Or do you have a better idea on how to track those 3 millions?"

Castillo wraps his hands tightly around his walking stick.

"Because we have no doubt that the way to the cash is through this child."

No, they have no doubt. That's not the point.

After a few seconds, Castillo replies harshly, "I want to be the next to interrogate Zulema."

* * *

About fifty-five kilometers away, the man known as “The Butcher of Marrakech” answers his satellite phone, and with a chuckle, he greets the man who called him.

“ _Assalamu Aleikum_ ,” he smiles with self-satisfaction, "I was starting to wonder when I'd hear from you again."

The man on the other side of the call doesn't share his humorous mood. "You’re a fucking pig, Karim!" he blurted out angrily, and the Butcher emitted a hoarse laugh. "They arrested Zulema Zahir yesterday."

"Yes, and?" Karim doesn't understand what the problem is, "We knew this was going to happen."

"Yes? And with her they also found Saray and the boy! How long do you think it will take them to get to the bottom of things and figure out what's going on here?"

Karim closes his eyes and presses his fingers to the bridge of his nose. "You have no reason to worry, they won't get anything out of him."

"Like they didn't get anything out of Zulema?" The man nearly loses it. "You can't be trusted! I want you to take care of it, or I'll go to the cops and tell them a few things myself!"

Karim removes his hands from his face, getting upset. _'May Allah crush this infidel's bones,'_ he thinks to himself. _'He suddenly feels like the big bully in the playground? Let's see how it works out for him in the long run.'_

"Don't try me," he warns. "And you better remember that we both have the same interest here. It's better for us both if Zulema is taken out of the picture for good. It's the only way for us both to get what we want."

The man on the other side of the line is unimpressed and remains angry. "I don't care what your interests are and what you want. Don't forget that you basically owe me all of your success in the field."

Karim chooses to remain silent.

"I want my son back, and then both you and Zulema can rot in the deepest pit of hell, for all I care," the caller concludes. "Just get the boy out of Spain. I'll handle things from there."

Then the conversation breaks off.


	2. The Investigation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is the second chapter. Tell me what you think.

* * *

Zulema hums quietly to herself, eyes roaming around the room and checking for cameras from time to time. A small, sarcastic smile stretches across her face, which makes her look even more threatening than usual.

She didn't miss this routine at all, but one could say she got used to it quickly, which is unfortunate. Her hands seemed to recognize the irritating presence of handcuffs, her nose was already accustomed to the smell of cheap-ass precinct coffee, and her soul indifferently absorbed the sense of melancholy that accompanies violent arrests. Overall, it was not a very traumatic day. Still, Zulema didn't miss this familiar situation at all.

The interrogation room door opens in a storm, and in wobbles Castillo, limping with his damn walking stick and wearing a furious expression that seems to be already embedded to his face. He's joined by a middle-aged, skinny, curly-haired lady-cop with green eyes, the kind of women who’d be bought and traded mercilessly in Cruz-Del-Norte, Zulema ponders in amusement.

The policewoman sits in front of her and tosses a folder on the table. Her expression reveals nothing. But Castillo? Castillo is like an open book. Once he takes a good first look at her, his expression changes into something else; a look of surprise, shock, and dare she say, disgust?

"What the hell did you do to yourself, _hija de la gran puta_?"

Zulema holds back a laugh. Castillo, with his gentlemanly ways, never ceases to amaze her. Only this time there is a reason for the shock written on his face. The last time he saw her, she looked different, after all.

"Oh, you mean this?" The detainee points to her face and laughs humorlessly. "Oh, come on, you know what it's like. Three girls living under the same roof. We're bound to step on each-other's toes. I got into serious trouble one day. Don't act so surprised-it's not that big of a deal."

"You look like a _piece of shit_ , Zahir." Castillo sits on the spare chair in front of her, examining her closely. Oh yes. Zulema does look different.

The woman's eyes, green and deep like coral, have always been one of her only sources of pride. When she was a child, when her mother tried selling her to whomever was willing to pay enough, those were the eyes which attracted the oldest and most depraved of Morocco. At first, Zulema cursed the seductive shape of her eyes, and only after fleeing the house and learning survive by herself had those pathetic eyes turned into weapon, through which she could achieve what threats and decent words couldn’t possibly.

But now those eyes can barely see. Her right eye is damaged, seeing 30% less than she is normally used to. Her left eye, on the other hand, is completely blind and the familiar coral shines no longer in it. Instead, her eye is mostly white-silvery and a dangerous sparkle is present in it. The spark lets you know that this is actually a glass-eye, a prosthesis.

At the tip of her nose, scoring diagonally left, a deep, ugly scar is visible, covering nearly half of her cheek.

"When did _this_ happen?" Castillo is intrigued.

Zulema shrugs. "Three years ago." She seems almost indifferent, or perhaps she is trying to forget the event. Watching Castillo's eyebrow uplifting, she replies briefly, "I had a small malfunction with one of the generators at home," the cynical smile returned to her face, "methanol poisoning".

"Umm," Castillo prefers not to get into specific details, and continues the investigation he wanted to get in the first place. "You mean the same house in Morocco, to which you ran away to almost six years ago?" He pulls the open folder offered by the policewoman to him.

Zulema leans back in her chair comfortably. "Is that a question or a statement? Because I'm sure you know the story. After all, you were the one who handled our case from day one."

Here, the policewoman chooses to intervene. "He and I together," she corrects, her cold, alienated look is piercing. "Then let me take you a few years back..."

"Oh, I love story-time!" Zulema fakes enthusiasm and smiles again.

"...More than 5 years ago, you, along with a group of inmates, escaped from the Cruz-Del-Sur private correctional center through a tunnel that was in the prison laundromat," the policewoman interrupts her. "Five inmates escaped with the help of a contact you had. Then your little group found shelter first in Rabat, Morocco, in a temporary beach house and then moved to Wadi-el-Arakhan in the south of the country."

"This story sounds familiar for some reason," Zulema checks her nails with a bored expression.

"Imagine our surprise when we finally hunt you down after six friggin' years, in some shithole in middle of the desert. But it turns out you're not alone. You have a child with you- Murad Zahir. Five and a half years old. "

Zulema doesn't life her gaze to her investigators, but her lips clench in protest and her eyes narrow.

"What's your connection to this kid, Zahir?" Castillo blurts out, his hands resting on his walking stick.

Zulema clears her throat, then lifts her eyes to face him. "Inspector Castillo, I thought you would have realized by now. Murad is my son. I raised him for years with much love and care. He must have asked to see me several times, and I'm sure you promised him we would meet soon, seeing you're so sensitive and understanding."

"Sensitive and understanding _mis cojones_!" Castillo's patience is growing thin. "Where did you get this kid from? You haven't seen "The Egyptian" for years, and before the escape you sold him to Macarena Ferreiro's family."

"Oh…Macarena Ferreiro." A wave of nostalgia washes over Zulema, "I haven't seen my dear friend in a long time; I almost forgot about our alliance, the one which she was so quick to betray. How is she, by the way - have they found her? "

"Not even close!" Castillo is fuming, while the cop next to him plays with her pen in annoyance. "Easier to find a needle in a haystack! I was hoping you knew where she was, and while you're at it, also tell us where the millions you stole are."

"You will have to ask _her_ , Inspector, because I honestly have no idea."

"You expect me to believe that?" Castillo presses. "I know very well that a _puto elfo_ like you would never let Ferreiro off the radar, much less trust her with the cash. So, what gives?"

Zulema's expression darkens, then changes again to fake indifference. "I'm not proud of it, but Blondie tricked me. It doesn't happen often. Believe me, if had I known where she was, she would have been taken care of long before any of you arrived."

Castillo turns to look at the policewoman next to him, and she shrugs. She then turns to look at Zulema suspiciously. "You aside, we also got to follow Karim. He received two calls from unidentified numbers in the past two weeks, before ditching his phones. What can you tell us about that?"

"These calls were not from me," Zulema replies briefly, "My relationship with Karim has been cut off almost completely in the last six months."

"Your relationship with Karim?" Castillo asks. "And what kind of connection was that, exactly? If I remember correctly, after you handed Hanbal Mahadi to the Ferreiros, he vowed to take revenge on you and them, but surprisingly enough, they, just like you, are still alive. Now you're telling me you two kept in touch? "

Zulema smiles again. "Let's just say that once Murad was born, many things changed," she shrugs. "Karim forgot about all previous conflicts the moment he first laid eyes on him. He saw Murad as the solution to all his problems, and who am I to keep my child away from his beloved uncle?" She sighs and concludes, "At the end of the day, things were resolved without unnecessary bloodshed. Everyone was pleased."

"Oh yes?" The policewoman replied cynically, "And if we ask Saray the same question, you think she'll give us a similar answer?"

* * *

"Obviously, we were all pleased!" The gypsy huffs, playing with the shackles around her skinny wrists. "Until you found us, of course. Now we're in for it. But on the other hand, we're all still alive, so I guess it could have been worse."

"It's worse than you think," the police-officer Villalba, whose Saray had learned her name in the first minutes of the investigation, answers impatiently. "There are three and a half million euros still in the wind, and your partner in crime refuses to give us its location."

"It's because she doesn't know," Saray leans forward and clicks her tongue, "and neither do I. To be honest, I couldn't care less. I know I'm going to jail anyway, and this time for a very long period. Couldn't give a rat's-ass about the money. You can't really enjoy it while you're dressed all in black and in fucking isolation."

"You don't care at all?" Castillo is not impressed, "So, do tell, what _do_ you want, other than saving yourself and getting a good plea deal?"

Saray's expression changes, her eyes turning gloomy and she bites her lower lip. She seems to go through an internal battle.

"I want to see Murad," she finally replies, eyes a bit teary and voice unstable. "He needs me. I don't know what you're doing to him and he's probably going crazy bring alone in a room with you. His routine should be kept."

Castillo examines his interrogator. It's impossible not to notice the different attitude of the two detainees when it comes to the child. Zulema seems confident in herself and hardly brings up Murad as a topic of conversation unless asked directly about him while Saray, on the other hand, looks anxious fears for him. Yes ... undoubtedly two different approaches and priorities.

"Murad is doing well," Villalba informs her. "He was a little confused at first, but he's used to us by now. He paints, he plays, he is fine. If you cooperate with us, I assure you that you will see him soon. But we need your help to resolve this matter as quickly as possible. "

Why should Saray cooperate with them, anyway? What can they offer her?

"What do I know?" The gypsy shrugs with a kind of exasperated surrender. "You have us in cuffs, what else do you want?"

Castillo scratches his cheek. "We found you, but we're after a bigger fish," the Inspector says, giving her a meaningful look.

She puts the pieces together rather quickly. "Karim," the Gypsy declares.

Castillo nods. "If what you say is true, and believe me, I checked every corner of this house to make sure there was no trace of cash, it means that Karim is holding the money, or is on his way to it. Either way, we are after him."

"And you think Zulema and I would tell you where he is, even if we knew?" Saray chuckles. "You've gotta be kidding; Zulema has annoyed Karim enough times. It's only thanks to Murad that she's even alive. None of us intend on going against him any time soon."

"Zulema said she hadn't been in contact with him for a few months. Do you have any idea what that means?" He pulls out a document from the folder, allowing Saray to take a peek at it.

The gypsy shrugs. "I don't recognize those numbers," she replies when she sees, and realizes that the two unidentified calls which came to Karim's cellphone were answered. "These weren't any of us, that's for sure."

Castillo looked pensive. "Mmm, I see; and…in your opinion,” Saray nods in response, "could one of those calls have been received from Macarena Ferreiro?"

Saray blinked, before releasing a snort of laughter. "Ehh, yeah, that's… fairly unlikely." her eyes gleam with a hard-to-decipher tone.

"And why not?"

The detainee shakes her head, another smile on her face. "Because as far as we know, Ferriero is buried in some hole in the desert, eaten up by worms. That's what happens to traitors."

"And Ferriero was a traitor?"

Saray shakes her head. "Zulema was trying to paint our escape as a big successful operation, but we weren't brainless," she says. "We all knew we were sitting ducks, just waiting for Karim and his people to come and cut our hands off or rape us. He did show up eventually, and I don't know what deal Zulema made with him; all I can tell is that he demanded ‘protection fees’ from those who hurt his nephew," Saray can use a cigarette by now. "So, he demanded that she and blondie pay for their lives. Zulema collaborated, but Macarena..."

Castillo's eyebrows arched. "Macarena... what?"

Saray's black eyes were piercing. "At one point, Macarena decided that Karim was demanding too much of her. So, she decided to leave the family. Karim wasn't happy about it. So like I told you, it's more likely that she's buried somewhere between the Wadi and Marrakesh than having phone calls with Karim. I just don't see a situation in which she risks herself again."

* * *

Miles away, late at night in a small Madrid condo, Fares Halbi lights his laptop, waiting for connection. The job he was required to do wasn't overly complicated, but from his experience, that didn’t mean much. He knows he must prepare himself and calculate his steps from now on.

A few seconds later, the software loads and the camera is activated. A dial tone sounds, and a young woman's face appears on the screen, a computer lamp illuminating her face. Fares smiles and nods. Although she looks exhausted, her blonde hair wild and eyes haunted, he still thinks of her as one of the most beautiful women he has ever met.

When he worded these thoughts to her in the past, she wasn't thrilled, and even bothered to clarify that he would not be grant any sexual or romantic favors. Fares knows he didn't really stand a chance with her, and yet, he enjoys hearing her voice and seeing her face, even if only on screen. In addition, he believes she deserved justice for everything she's been through.

" _Keif Halek, Ya Fares_?" She asks in a calm tone after a few seconds of silence. "Is everything okay over there?"

" _Alhamdulillah_ , everything's fine," he replies with a smile, his heart going out to her. "I'm monitoring the situation here, just as we agreed. Vargas and Zahir are under arrest. Murad was found with them," he then realizes what he said, and changes his words. "The boy."

The mention of the child's name was enough to anger her, and Fares knew it. Her reaction to his name varied, and depended on her current mood.

Her face darkens and it takes a few seconds for her to respond. "He will try and get him out of Spain.” It is not a question.

Fares nods; no need to ask to whom she is referring. They both know who _he_ is.

"Did you do what I asked of you?" The woman asks.

"Yes", Fares replies, then turns to pick up two pictures from the table, pictures he took the day before. He places the pictures in front of the camera so she could see for herself that the job has been done.

In the pictures one can clearly see a teenage girl with honey-colored hair and a skinny frame, as she leaves school, accompanied by her friends. She is laughing, carefree. Fares moves to another picture, where the girl was taken from a different angle.

The woman nods. "Yes," she replies quietly, "It's her. Good job, Fares."

He sighs and shakes his head. The woman seems to be preparing to cut the call short, but he feels the need to say another thing:

"Maca."

Macarena Ferreiro looks at him gravely.

"What?"

Fares suddenly seems to writhe. "Are you sure that's what you want to do?" He wants to make sure. "You know that hypothetically speaking, I have no problem with the job. I can have her in my van, gagged and blindfolded in a second. You are aware, however, that once we do this, it can only go one way?"

Her eyes narrow. "Fares _, don't_ ," she warns. "First of all, I really hope it doesn't come to that. If we can push the right buttons, we'll scare him enough and no extreme steps will be needed to be taken. But if that doesn't help ... I'll do what it takes."

Fares knows this is the moment to cut his losses. Macarena knows what she's doing, after all.

"When will we meet?" He prefers to ask instead.

"Soon enough," she replies. "In the meantime, I need you focused. Find out what you can about the investigation and tell me about anything out of the ordinary."

"Very well," he replies. "We'll talk. Good night."

"Good night," she concludes, and the call disconnects.

Fares remains with his thoughts for a few moments, then rises from the table in front of him, collecting the two pictures and attaching them to the old kitchen fridge with a large magnet. He stands there for a bit longer, just staring at them for a while.

"I'm sorry, Catalina," he murmurs quietly, "but if your father messes with Murad… I'll mess with you."

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Confused much? I assume you are. Don't worry, things will soon become clearer.


End file.
